Off-key

"It takes awhile before / you can step over inert / bodies and go ahead with / what you were trying to do." Sign as art in the new Art In America. Done just the way I was going to do an installation of signs, vinyl signage on a metal sign blank. Excellent. Made some really spicy salsa to have on fried cornmeal mush, you can't just have morel duxelles at every meal. They do, however, make a wonderful omelet, which you can have with the cornmeal mush and salsa. I stuffed some lovely smallish morels with goat cheese, heated them through in the toaster-oven; you need to blanch the morels first, and dry thoroughly. Sara sent a Dining section of the NY Times with a recipe for pork loin, with braised asparagus and mushrooms, I'll use a tenderloin instead, since I live alone, grill the meat, slightly blackened, served with a red currant sauce. I'm sorry I can't be there more often, for my daughters, in time I hope they'll understand that I was told to leave, that I love them nonetheless. Phone calls. Worked my ass off today, cleaning some places that had never been cleaned, 10 feet of rubber mat that stretches in front of the kitchen sink and counter, the urinal in the men's room, the box, in the ladies' room where they deposit sanitary napkins and tampax. Tampax tubes are common wrack. Most men would never know that there was usually a metal box, attached to the wall, in many public ladies' rooms, for the disposal of sanitary products. Eventually, these need cleaning. There was a course, at Janitor College, taught by a battle-axe, one of the first union females, that was required. Sanitary Disposal. It assumed we knew nothing about women, being mostly dumb males, and for the most part they were probably correct. Who knew you could bleed so much. That we would need to address the smell. I like the smell, actually, menstrual blood, it's funky; but the public needs protected, so I disinfect the box and put a vial of patchouli behind the toilet. A child of the sixties. Next thing you know I'll be pushing little balls of mercury across the floor. Been there, done that. Not a shattered thermometer but merely something we did, to pass the time, while we listening to the Goldberg Variations. I love Glenn Gould humming in the background, makes it real for me. Off-key and slightly out of step, where I usually find myself, frankly bewieldered. It's confusing, the world, major league curve balls, all that shit. Thoreau was correct. Lead with your heart.